My Blood Approves
by Iris-Ice
Summary: "Do you actually want to marry me?" Sirius asked. His eyes were gray fire. "No, but we can't do anything to stop it," she replied. "You heard them, the spell is-" Sirius growled at her. "Have you ever fought for anything in your entire life, Harman?"
1. Prologue

_**A/N: Yes, I know that the idea has been done before, but I would really love to see if I could pull it off. If I continue this or not will be based on what kind of comments I receive, but any kind of review would be appreciated, even a flame. **_

_**Disclaimer: I, Iris-Ice, own no part of the Harry Potter series, written by J.K Rowling and made into a movie by Warner Bros. Studio. I also do no own the poem below, "since feeling is first," by E.E. Cummings. I only own my original characters in this story, such as Violet Harman and Cassiopeia the owl.**_

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><p>since feeling is first<p>

By E.E. Cummings

_since feeling is first_

_who pays any attention_

_to the syntax of things_

_will never wholly kiss you;_

_wholly to be a fool_

_while Spring is in the world_

my blood approves,

_and kisses are a far better fate_

_than wisdom_

_lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry_

_-the best gesture of my brain is less than_

_your eyelids' flutter which says_

_we are for each other: then_

_laugh, leaning back in my arms_

_for life's not a paragraph_

_And death i think is no parenthesis_

* * *

><p>Violet Harman looked down at the parchment she was holding with distaste. Her hope that her Christmas holidays would be anything other than dismal had gone down the toilet the moment that her mother's eagle owl had brought this letter. Letters from home never seemed to bear any news except for bad news; seeing the fine stationary and her mother's elaborate handwriting always told Violet to prepare herself for something that was going to be, in her own opinion, horrible. Especially in a family like the Harman family, where the horrible something could mean anything, from her little brother having the dragon pox to her batty great-aunt coming for Easter to a notice that a distant relative had died and she would be summoned from the school to attend a funeral.<p>

As it was nearing the holidays, Violet was certain that this letter bared news of a miserable social event that she would have to attend. She sincerely hoped that the Malfoy family wasn't hosting another New Year's Eve ball this year. Last year's had been horrible; she had been forced to dance with Terrance Greengrass, who had talked to her the entire night about the job he hoped to obtain in the Ministry after he left Hogwarts. Nearly the only thing worse than a gathering at Mafloy Manor was one at the Lestrange Estate . Thank God they only held their Yule celebration every other year.

And, of course, there was always the chance that her parents had decided that this was a year that they should throw their own party. Her birthday fell on the fourth of January, the day when students usually returned to Hogwarts to finish off their year, but it was close enough to the holidays that it was acceptable for a party to be thrown during the Christmas social season. These parties seemed random, marked more by her mother's desire to show out and an open position in the season's social calendar than by any need to celebrate Violet. That didn't seem likely, as Violet would be turning sixteen this year; her mother was most likely too busy planning her seventeenth birthday bash than to bother with one this year.

The only way to know what horror was waiting for certain, she knew, was to open the letter and decipher the script. It wasn't as if it would matter anyway, Violet thought ruefully; she knew herself well enough to know that she would go along with her mother's plans regardless of her own misery. It wasn't worth the time or the pain to argue with her. Besides, the energy she would use fighting would be better off being put into other things that she actually enjoyed doing.

Two of her roommates sent a disgusted look her way as Cassiopeia, her mother's owl, screeched impatiently. Violet hated that creature. She thought that it was stupid. Didn't it know that it was supposed to come in at breakfast like the other owls, not fly to her dorm room?

With steady hands, she finally opened the letter, pulling on the wax seal. She had long ago mastered the art of reading her mother's nearly illegible handwriting. Her letter said:

_ Dearest Violet, _

_As your holiday approaches, I find that it may be fit to inform you that your father and I have begun the process of selecting your future husband. The man that you marry will forever affect your social standing, and as such, will reflect on the standing of the Harman family. At your age, it would be quite simple indeed to become enamored with a boy who is entirely unfit for you and for our family. In times such as these, we of pure blood must stay so in order to remain influential and respectable. It wouldn't do to have your become enamored with a half-blood, or even worse, a mudblood. Must I bring up the disgraceful case of Andromeda Black? _

_As your parents, we have taken it upon ourselves to prevent such a travesty from occurring in our family. We do not doubt that, if left to your own devices, you would choose a spouse suitable for our respected family; however, we find that it is best not to take chances with matters of the heart. We have already begun the process of screening the eligible men in your age group and their families. _

_We shall be entertaining one such family on the evening of your arrival from school. The four of them shall be arriving at our home for a dinner party; I would prefer if you avoid making any plans or revealing this knowledge to your friends. The young man in question seems to be entirely right for you. He is both handsome and the purity of his family is quite renowned. Marrying him would boost your social status incomparably, and thus I feel that it would be appropriate that you be forewarned and prepare yourself to charm him and his family. _

_I can hardly hold back my excitement over this occasion, darling. It may be only in a few weeks, but I have hardly slept since making our dinner date in my anticipation. I know that you would never let your father and I down. I eagerly await your return home, my dear. _

_ Your devoted mother,_

_ Florence Harman _

It took all that Violet had to avoid letting out an audible gasp. Cassiopeia continued to screech, but Violet hardly noticed. She had just learned, after all, that she might be engaged before she had even taken her O.W.L.s. A screeching owl was the least of her problems. She had to write a letter back.


	2. I: Dinner Is Served

Violet clung to her father's robes with both hands as he Apparated just outside of the Harman estate's iron gates. She hated slide-along Apparation. It wasn't because she was afraid of splinching, but because she hated that feeling being ripped from one place and shoved into another. Her father gave her a look as she finally released her hold on his arm, as if reprimanding her for being so fearful. Abel Harman was one of the tallest men that Violet had ever met, and certainly the one who seemed the less likely to be intimidated. Not that anyone would know if he was; Violet's father had never been one to express emotions.

She looked around for her trunk for just a moment, before realizing that one of the family's two house-elves, Bram, had come with her father to the station to collect it. She wondered, futilely, if Bram had gotten her trunk home alright by himself. She knew that it was ridiculous to worry about it (after all, elves were specifically bound to their families so that they couldn't fail their masters), but it was merely a part of her nature to be anxious. Besides, Bram had probably already gotten the trunk and Apparated it directly into her bedroom by now. It was always there before she was.

Thinking of her bedroom made her look towards the house. Looking through the bars of the gates, she could see the bay window of her bedroom on the third floor. It was wide open, probably to air it out, and the curtains were blowing in the slight breeze like a welcome home flag. The Harman Chateau was large, with around a dozen bedrooms and half that many baths. It also encompassed a library, two studies, and both formal and non-formal sitting and dining rooms, as well as a large courtyard. That night, they would be using the formal dining room: in her mind, she saw a room with a dark wood table, high-backed chairs, and tapestries bearing the Harman crest.

The thought made her cringe.

At that moment, the gates swung inward, allowing Violet and her father to walk across the pathway towards the house's front door. It was a long, quiet walk; without Violet's mother around to force conversation, it seemed like neither she nor her father was going to speak. Violet found herself getting ahead of her father, and when the door opened, she hardly had time to brace herself as her younger brother launched himself at her. He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, and Violet struggled to move her arms in his tight grip. He was deceptively strong, for a seven-year-old.

"Hullo, Ettie," Miles said joyfully. His eyes were the same brown as their mother's, and he had also inherited their mother's button nose and their father's cleft chin. His hair was the same color as Violet's, neither truly blond nor brown, but it was in a muddle of ferocious curls that she doubted would ever be tamed. Somehow, he had tricked genetics into giving him freckles, though how he had done it, Violet was totally unaware. Still, the effect was adorable.

Any child that was cuter than Miles, Violet had always thought, must have been a weapon of mass destruction.

"Hi, Milo." She smiled at him. "How are you, little brother?"

"I'm good." He beamed at her, even as she began to ruffle his hair . "I've been waiting for you to get home all day long. Mother lied and told me that you would be here this morning."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "Did she really?" she asked. Milo nodded enthusiastically, but Violet had some doubts. Milo was just as likely to exaggerate as their mother was to lie. "That wasn't very nice of her." It was best to humor him.

"She wants to me tell you to hurry up and come inside. She wants to talk to you." He wrinkled his nose. "You don't have to, though, if you don't want to. Father got me the Nimbus I wanted for my birthday. We could go flying, or we could go up to my room and I can show you my new Quidditch poster, or…"

Boys, Violet concluded, were always obsessed with Quidditch.

"Well," she began, "it'll be dark soon, Miles. We won't be able to see for very long. How about we put the flying off until tomorrow morning? And you know that I would love seeing your posters, but I think that I should go see what Mother wants. You can come with me, though, and when Mother's done with me, we'll go see your posters."

"Alright, Ettie."

She followed him into the house, past the foyer, and down the hall, into the sitting room. Both of her parents were already there, intensely discussing something. She could tell that it was intense because her mother wasn't smiling, but had a small frown on her face. Her expression changed as she noticed that Violet and Miles had entered the room, but it didn't change fast enough.

"Darling," she said, smiling. Florence crossed the room gracefully to envelope Violet in an embrace. "I've missed you so much. You look like you've grown a foot since the summer. Do you want a cup of tea? I've already had Bitty put on the kettle."

Typical motherly things to say, thought Violet. Florence Harman might have liked Violet to think that she was an affectionate mother, but she knew better. Florence was medium height and thin, with a heart-shaped face and delicate features. Miles had gotten her eyes, but they seemed completely different than his; hers were sharp and watchful, like a bird's, while his were warm and friendly. Florence Harman had curly dark brown hair. She was a beautiful woman, Violet supposed, once you got past her fake smiles. She hardly looked like a woman obsessed with living in the high society.

In contrast, Abel was tall and muscular, bulky. He was older than Florence, his hair more gray than the dull golden color it used to be. Violet had received her eyes from her father; they were the same light green, with the same rounded shaped. He had rough features, a strong jaw and a heavyset eyebrows. He looked strong and threatening, but he wasn't the driving force in her parents' marriage.

"No thank you. I was going to come talk to you for a moment, and then go upstairs with Miles," Violet said. "He told me that you want to speak to me about something."

Florence turned to Miles. "Miles, I think that your sister is going to be busy this afternoon. Why don't you go upstairs and play with your little dragon dolls?"

Miles scrunched up his nose. "They aren't dolls, Mother. They're exclusive collectables." He had a hard time saying those big words. "And I want to play with Violet."

"Violet is going to be busy," their mother repeated. "Go upstairs and play."

"But she just got here, and you said that -" Milo protested.

"Do what your mother said, Miles," Abel Harman warned gruffly. "Now. And close the door on your way."

Miles huffed in indignation but did what he was told, angrily slamming the door as he left the room. Inwardly, Violet groaned as her parents turned their attention on her. _What are they going to say to me that they couldn't in front of him?_ she asked herself. She was dreading finding out.

"Our conversation will be brief," her mother informed her. "You need to start preparing soon for dinner. Our guests will be here a six forty-five sharp. You have less than three hours to prepare yourself, and you must be prepared well."

"Are these people that big of a deal, Mother?" Violet asked quietly. Of course, they would be; she went through a list of families that her mother would find so impressive: the Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Greengrasses, the Bryces, and the Blacks. She was hoping that it was either Greengrasses or the Bryces. If it was the Greengrasses, then Calista would be there with Terrance and their parents, which wouldn't be so bad, and she quite liked Nathanial's parents and younger sister.

Florence ignored that. "I'm having Bram run you a bath as we speak. You smell like train." _What does a train even smell like?_ Violet wondered. "Afterwards, I will personally help you style your hair before I get dressed. Your dress robes have been made specially for this occasion and will have been lain out on your bed by the time you are out of the bath. You will wear make-up tonight." Violet usually didn't wear make-up; she disliked the way that it felt on her skin. "You will find a bottle of perfume on your dressing table, beside the make-up. Spray it exactly twice."

"Yes, Mother," Violet said wearily. _She's not taking any chances tonight, is she?_ It seemed like the only thing she was being allowed to do was pick out her shoes.

"You have no questions?" Florence asked. She shifted in her chair, holding her hands in her lap.

"No, Mother. I understand what to do." Violet sighed, closing her eyes, and began to list everything. "Take a bath. You'll help me with my hair. Special clothes will be put on the bed. I'll be wearing make-up. Two squirts of perfume."

"Good," Florence said in approval. "You may go, Violet. I'll be in your room in thirty-five minutes." She paused. "Oh, and shoes should also be with your dress."

_She doesn't trust me_. _She doesn't even trust me to pick out my own footwear_, Violet thought in dismay.

* * *

><p>The one thing that Sirius liked about 12 Grimmauld Place was his bed.<p>

That morning, he had woken up before the sun was up with a splitting headache and the scent of firewhiskey hanging around him like a curtain. And then he had puked half a bottle of firewhiskey and what looked like several un-chewed Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans onto the carpet. When Prongs had woken up at nine, he had come into the bathroom to find Sirius sweating and dry heaving on the floor. Needless to say, Prongs had laughed, Wormtail had been curious, and Moony had given him a disapproving look. He had spent a miserable train ride on his way to an even more miserable house.

He wished that he had another bottle of firewhiskey somewhere, as a matter of fact. He was sure that he would need it in a matter of hours.

Sirius Black spent the energy that most people devoted to loving their family to hating his. As far as he was concerned, the Blacks were all cruel, selfish, power-hungry, and without a sense of humor. Even the house-elf was a despicable creature. If he would let himself, he would spend weeks on end brooding about the fact that he had to go back. Therefore, he had drank as much as he could hold the night before, in hopes that he would forget that he had to come back to his own personal hell. It had worked well, until he woken up hung-over.

He did like that bed, though. It was easy to fall asleep there, and Sirius was well on his way when the pounding on his door began.

"Mistress says for Master Sirius to stop being worthless layabout and to prepare for dinner tonight -" came the croaking voice of the house-elf.

"Go away, Kreacher," Sirius commanded groggily. "I'm not going to go to dinner."

The pounding stopped, and Sirius went slowly back to sleep. He didn't know how long he was asleep before he heard the door open and slam against the wall.

"I told you, Kreacher, I'm not going to dinner," he shouted. He sat up in the bed, looking for something to throw at the damn house-elf.

"You don't have a choice," Regulas informed him plainly. His expression was carefully passive. Sirius supposed that the two of them looked somewhat alike. They had inherited many of the same traits: same gray eyes, same wavy black hair, same nose, same high cheekbones. But the slight difference seemed to outweigh the similarities, and there was no way to avoid it: Sirius was sexier than Regulas.

Or at least he was in his own opinion. Still, that was the only one that mattered to him.

"Mother has asked me to make sure that you're up," Regulas said. "We're attending a dinner party tonight. All of us. She wants you to look presentable. Take a bath, put on dress robes, all of that."

"A dinner party?" Sirius hated dinner parties. He'd been woken up for a dinner party? "To hell with that. I'm not going." He collapsed back down on the bed.

"Do you want to tell her that, or should I?" Regulas asked. "I'm sure that she'll have something to say about it."

Sirius was sure she would, too. "Please tell her, Regulas. And while you're at it, tell her that it's stupid of her to send you in here. You can't make me do anything."

"You're going to be sorry about this." Regulas sighed and left.

Ten minutes later, Sirius could see that he had a point.

"Sirius Orion Black!" his mother shouted, blowing the door open widely. "Get up, you worthless child! Up, right now!"

"I'm not going to your damn dinner party, Walburga," Sirius said, covering his head with his pillow.

"_Scourgify_!"

Sirius' mouth was filled with soap, and he sat up spitting and choking on the stuff. He looked around for his wand wildly. Walburga Black already had it in her hand.

Of all the people that Sirius hated, his mother held a special place near the top of the list. She was cruel, temperamental, and thoroughly too insistent on getting things her way. She reminded him of some sort of snake, with her unkind snake eyes and her sleekly tied-back hair. She looked a lot like Regulas, Sirius decided, choosing to ignore for the moment that he and Regulas looked very much alike.

"You will not speak to your mother in such a fashion," she informed him.

"Oh, you're my mother?" Sirius asked cynically. "Odd, I always thought that my mum would be human. I suppose that one of us has to wrong, though."

Shrieking an incantation, she aimed her own wand at his bed; the mattress lifted up and dumped him onto the floor.

"Ingrate," she shrieked. "We're going to be late, because of you. Must I remind you that we are the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black? The Blacks are _never_ _late_." She looked him over in disgust. "I didn't raise you to be such a disgrace."

"You didn't raise me at all! You left me and Regulas with Kreacher whenever possible!"

She then aimed a succession of scourging charms at Sirius, though not at his mouth. "You're simply filthy! A stain on the family tree! _Scourgify! Scourgify!_"

The charms hurt like hell as they touched Sirius' exposed skin and left his skin feeling raw and lemon-scented. He scrambled to his feet, swearing and wiping soap bubbles off of his face.

"What's wrong with you?" he shouted.

Walburga ignore him, instead nonverbally charming open Sirius's wardrobe. With another spell, she made a set of dress robes fly out. They landed on the wooden desk a few feet from Sirius.

"Put them on immediately and be downstairs in half an hour," she said, looking disdainfully at the posters lining the walls of Sirius' bedroom (mostly consisting of curvy muggle girls in smutty poses, wearing very little clothing). "And comb your hair, it looks like a rat's nest."

* * *

><p>When Violet was a little girl, her favorite thing in the world had been when her mother would dress her hair for her. Florence would first remove the tangles in it with a silver comb, then charm it dry. She would then brush it over and over again, before beginning the next step in whatever style she had selected for Violet. Her mother would speak to her, and for a few moments, she would be allowed to simply spend time with her mother without being at some social gathering or being lectured.<p>

Violet stared at the reflection in the mirror and watched her mother's hands weave through her hair. Florence was all concentration on this matter, not speaking as she created plait after tiny plait in Violet's hair. She attached the plaits together with a series of pins, and Violet admired the elaborate hairstyle as Florence dropped her hands. Violet turned her head, trying to get a good look in the mirror.

"It looks lovely, Mother," she said quietly.

Florence smiled coolly. "Thank you, Violet. Don't ruin it up before our guests arrive."

"I won't," Violet promised. Florence gave her an approving nod and left silently. Violet watched her close the door behind her before she turned to put on her make-up.

She really didn't like the stuff at all, but she had no choice in the matter. She started with concealer, then followed with a powder foundation and blush. Since eye and lip make-up had been put on the dressing table, she used some as well. The only difference in magical and muggle make-up, Violet had read, was that high quality magical make-up was nearly impossible to smear or even put on improperly. It was true, as far as she could tell; even someone like her, who could count the times that she wore the stuff in a year on one hand, could transform themselves easily with the expensive brand that her mother had bought her.

When she was finished, her lips looked soft and had been painted pale pink. Her eyes looked instantly larger, surrounded by silver and gray. Her skin looked smooth and her cheekbones appeared high in her heart-shaped face. The perfume she had been obliged to wear smiled like gardenias, and combined with her shampoo to make her smell like a bouquet. She utterly hated it.

Rather than brooding, she stood and walked towards her bed. Her new robes were lying there, nestled in thin white paper. She eyed them as she slipped off her bathrobe. They were forest green, with satiny sheen and a cut that she could see was designed to give her curves that she didn't have in reality. The skirt was flowy and a bit on the full side, the round neckline conservative. The sleeves, made of white lace, showed her shoulders. There was a white sash around the waist.

Violet frowned, wrinkling her nose at it. It reminded her of a wedding dress. All that was missing was a veil. She slipped it on, anyway, and put the shoes (white-leather pumps, pointed toes) sitting under the edge of the bed. Resignedly, she looked in the mirror. The girl in it looked so much more grown up than Violet felt: make-up, elegant hair, heeled shoes, fancy gown. She was nearly foreign to Violet.

Picking up the long skirt of the gown so that she wouldn't step on the hem (it even had a train, she noted unhappily), she left for the drawing room, preparing herself to meet her doom.

The guests hadn't yet arrived, and her mother hadn't yet finished preparing herself, either, but Abel and Miles were both in the room. Violet's father looked her over and nodded at her. Milo smiled at her broadly, wearing dark blue dress robes.

"You look pretty, Ettie," he said charmingly.

"Thanks, Miles." Violet answered. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

The clock said six-forty when their mother came into the room. The scent of lilacs followed her into the room. Her dress was mauve and made of some lovely velvety material. Her hair was combed into sleek dark ringlets, and her make-up was flawless in every way. She was wearing expensive jewelry, made of diamonds and moonstones that had been attached to each other in the shapes of small flowers. She looked stunning and sophisticated. Of course, no one would expect differently of Florence Harman.

"You look beautiful, Florence," Violet's father said stoically.

"Thank you, my dear." Her mother smiled coldly. "The guests will be here any minute now. Violet, please think before you speak darling. I don't want you to offend them. Miles, please don't speak at all. You should be seen but not heard. Am I clear, children?"

"Yes, Mother," the brother and sister chimed together.

It was a short, awkward wait until Bitty the house-elf came scurrying into the room. She bowed to Mrs. Harman respectfully. "The Blacks is here, ma'am. Just apparated outside of the gates."

"The Blacks?" Violet said in dismay. _Oh, no. Please, no. Anyone but him, please. Anyone but him…I can't do it if it's him, please don't let it be him._

"Very well, Bitty. Open the gates and bring them in. here."

The elf scurried out right away to complete her orders, and Violet began to panic. She thought that she was prepared for this before, but now she wasn't entirely certain. The idea of her being married to _him_ of all people was sickening. _Maybe it's not the same Blacks. Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's his brother. _She doubted it, though. Pureblood society looked down upon a girl marrying a younger boy, even when the age difference was small. It was a strange quirk, but one she had to accept.

The Blacks invaded the room with confidence; first Orion, a tall man who had been very handsome in his youth, with salt and pepper hair, then Regulas, who was two years under Violet in school but seemed to be a nice enough boy, then Walburga, who seemed on par with Florence in her fierceness, and lastly Sirius.

Sirius, who had tormented Violet when they were children. Sirius, who enjoyed making bottles of ink dump out over any Slytherin's head during potions. Sirius, who had never in his life had anything kind to say to her ever.

"Orion, so nice to see you," Florence said smoothly, rising from the couch to embrace the man before moving to his wife. "Walburga, darling, it's been too long."

"It has, Florence," Walburga Black agreed. She looked as much like Sirius as Violet remembered. "My, your children have certainly grown."

"As have yours. It's hard to believe that Sirius and Violet are already in fifth year, isn't it? It seems as if it was just yesterday when the two of them were playing on the lawn, and Regulas was hardly toddling about." Florence smiled without much feeling.

"And of course, I remember when your son was just an infant," Mrs. Black said.

"Would you like a cup of tea, or would you prefer to go on to dinner? The elves have made a special menu for our get together tonight."

"Not hungry," Violet heard Sirius mumble.

"I think that dinner will do, thank you, Florence."

The party proceeded to the dining room, Miles sticking closely to Violet's side but dutifully not speaking. Violet knew exactly where she would be sitting, and to her dismay (but not surprise), Sirius found himself stuck in the seat across from hers. She resolved not to speak to him if she could help it. It seemed like he didn't want to speak to her, anyway.

The house-elves served the first course of dinner, a warm potato soup that was Miles' favorite dish.


End file.
